Memories of 200 Oxford Street by Trevor Hill

This page is an abridged version of a chapter from Trevor's
book 'Over the Airwaves' and is used here with his permission.

J.B. Priestley came into the talks studio and, as usual, handed me his raincoat
and old trilby. I bade him good evening as I held back the sound-proof doors
between the control cubicle and studio. It was the usual routine. On the studio
table were a glass of water and a set of head-phones, for he liked to broadcast
with these plugged into 'Local Output' which enabled him to hear his own voice
at the microphone. It was a ring main system common to all BBC Studios - Point
1, Home Service; Point 2, Forces Programme et cetera, until you reached Point
8, Local Output, then there was a Point 9 for Talkback from recording.

The great man donned the headphones, took a sip of water and then looked up.
On my side of the soundproof observation window I nodded ready to take the
level of his voice. He read just the first line of his script then stopped
as usual whilst, from my side, I switched to Point 9 for a word with the engineer
in the disk recording channel.

'Hello, recording. J.B. Priestley and Britain Speaks!'

Before I could say, 'We'll start in ten seconds from now,' a chirpy voice
came across my cubicle loudspeaker.

'Good God, is that old gas-bag in again?'

John Boynton Priestley loomed large as, this time, he opened his own studio
doors and strode out. My mistake was that I'd left his studio head-phones
switched to Point 9!

'I don't come to the British Broadcasting Corporation to be called a gas-bag!'
he declared in stern Bradfordian tones - and left.

To get into and out of the BBC's technical areas in what had been this bargain
basement of Peter Robinson's department store, and from where the Corporation
now conducted most of its Overseas Broadcasting business, it was necessary
for everyone, staff included, to show a pass to the men on twenty-four hour
security. As I tore along towards that area, I was fortunate enough to meet
one of the Presentation Department senior staff.

'Oh sir!' I exclaimed in anguish, and explained what had happened.

'That is rather regrettable,' came the mild reply. 'I will deal with this.'

Fortunately, the injured party in his anger couldn't find the pass he had
produced not ten minutes earlier in order to get into the studio area.

'Yes, yes, I know who you are, Mr Priestley, Sir, but I do have
to see your pass, Sir, on leaving as well as entering,' said the distant voice
of Security, by which time Presentation had caught up with the celebrated
man. He apologised profusely, and we were back in the studio again.

'Hello, recording. Britain Speaks.'

When asked for a voice level, Mr Priestley leant forward and said, 'I've been
a bit of a bugger! That alright for level?'

Amongst ourselves we junior Programme Engineers often referred to this regular
series as 'JB Spouts'. To accord him just and proper dues, Priestley was one
of the great broadcasters and his was certainly the voice that braced
so many listeners in those dark days of 1940. Now in 1943, however, Priestley
was to be joined at 200 Oxford Street by two other distinguished men at the
microphone, Wickham Steed and Howard Marshall, the latter becoming head of
the War Report unit.

When I think of Mr Steed, I immediately hear the proud note which crept into
the voice of BBC overseas announcer, Albert Moor, as he declaimed at a particularly
exciting and tense moment in the conduct of war, 'And here is Wickham Steed
to give you some un-interesting details about the Allied landings in Sicily!'

When, tactfully, I mentioned what he'd just said, our Albert went 'bananas',
in common parlance.

'But that's typed in the effing script'. It is in-the-script!'

Timings and Frequencies The timing of
programme durations and announcements was of the essence on the various Overseas
Services, Pacific, Eastern, African, and perhaps most important of all, the
North American service. These countries re-broadcast many of the programmes
originated by the BBC in London on their own transmitters, so the Overseas
announcers at 200 Oxford Street had to be really on their toes and watching
the studio clock when it came to various programme junctions. There was, for
example, a twenty or thirty second 'build up' for all radio stations about
to relay a BBC programme and during this, our Mr Moor would say something
like 'This is the African Service of the BBC, Broadcasting on the 18 metre
band, the 21 metre band, the 49 metre band…'

I cannot recall the precise frequencies now, but this sort of thing had to
be announced at regular intervals. At precisely twenty or thirty seconds into
this 'build up' the programme from London would begin its transmission. These
metre band announcements were quite frightening things to tackle - until the
announcers became used to them and then they became very boring indeed. One
day when I was working in the Continuity Studio with our Albert, to break
the monotony he flicked the microphone key on and off in quick succession
in between yet another of those metre band announcements - only he got things
slightly out of sync. In other words, his mic was 'live' when he thought it
was 'dead'. What our listeners heard their end was: 'This is the African Service
of the BBC Broadcasting on (pause) ... hat bands, (pause) ... brass bands,
(pause) ... elastic bands!'

I rather imagine that Mr Grenfell Williams, who was in charge of that particular
Overseas Service, heard the announcement himself, for when I last met Mr Moor
on the London Underground, he had become more successful in quite another
profession - insurance. The Epilogue My job, when I started work
at 200 Oxford Street in the Continuity Studios, was to play music on gramophone
records besides complete programmes recorded by the BBC on seventeen-inch
'slow speed' discs. That was in the days before microgrooves had been invented.
The BBC slow speed records would have things like Front Line Family
recorded on them. Then there was the Epilogue. On a particular Sunday
evening when I was working in the Continuity Studio for the Pacific Service
I had a very nice Australian announcer on duty with me, Isabel Ann Shead.
The trusting Ann turned to me and asked what was next on that day's Routine
Transmission Schedule. I consulted the document.

'Oh, it's the old E-pill-o-gog,' I replied facetiously.

Miss Shead went into action.

'This is the Pacific Service of the BBC.'

We were allowed the slightest reverential pause for such a Sunday transmission.

'The E-pill-o-gog!' declared the good lady for all to hear.

In our Overseas Presentation Department, situated two or three floors above
our underground studios, all 'gaffs' were carefully noted and displayed the
following day. I went to explain to the young lady who did the typing that
it was all my fault. She couldn't stop laughing, but the head of Presentation,
Mr Tom Chalmers, wasn't so amused.

Presentation In spite of my misdemeanours
and undoubtedly those of other young staff, Tom Chalmers was to help a lot
of us along in our Corporation careers. He was heading the team of announcers
for all the Overseas Networks including people like Joan Griffiths, Marjorie
Anderson, Margaret Hubble, Georgie Henschel, Sanday Wilshin and Mary Malcolm.
On the male announcing team were the dashing Franklin 'Jingles' Engelmann,
Guy Belmore, Roy Williams and Philip Robinson.

I always enjoyed working with Philip who originated from Bradford. One of
the 'standby' records we had in the studio in case of a breakdown was entitled
Dance of the Daisies, and if the programme did go off the air, as sometimes
happened, Philip would pass a hand across his suffering brow, murmuring, 'Oh,
not those darned Daisies again!'

It was Philip Robinson, that kindest wartime colleague, who in the very dead
of night allowed me to speak into a BBC microphone as I read an announcement
for him to the North American continent. His boss, Tom Chalmers, paid us a
visit just before our shift ended.

'Heard a new voice on the Network. Quite pleasant too. Better when it is a
little deeper!'

He departed with never a glance in my direction.

During another night shift, having come up for air to the BBC canteen, which
was on the ground floor, Mr Chalmers paused at my table.

'I think,' he said quietly to me and to me alone, 'the next time you put on
those Columbia Blue Label recordings of Delius, it would be better to play
the movements in the order the composer intended!'

Undoubtedly the most dramatic of confrontations between the Head of Overseas
presentation and this engineer occurred at the very door of Red Continuity.
We literally collided. In the split second silence Mr Chalmers looked suddenly
alarmed.

'What's happened to the programme?'

I too heard nothing. The slow speed recording which should have been going
out on transmission at that very moment was tucked under my arm. I'd lifted
the pick-up from the turntable, put the record back into its cover and was
now on my way with it to the Recorded Programmes Library where such things
were kept - but only before or after they had been broadcast.
I have always prided myself on keeping a tidy studio!

***
It was the kind and understanding Tom Chalmers who realised that the young
girl he'd heard when telephoning her wartime boss had a lovely voice. He therefore
had this secretary transferred to his own department, then suggested to producer
Noel Iliff that perhaps Miss Jean Metcalfe might be invited to read a poem
or two in his Chapter and Verse programmes. Within a short space of
time, someone else was typing announcements whilst Jean was reading them on
the General Overseas Service of the BBC, and when her boss hit on an idea
of a series of record request programmes for the troops abroad, who better
than Jean Metcalfe to announce Forces Favourites. My contribution was
to play-in the records requested, besides finding a suitable signature tune
for the series. The André Kostelanetz version of With a Song in my Heart
was to have special connections for Jean when Forces Favourites became
Family Favourites after the war ended.

It was the studio microphone key which gave the very experienced Joan Griffiths
a nasty moment one day when she was doing Forces Favourites. The announcers
had to keep a presentation log book, noting the starting and finishing times
of each and every programme, besides other information. We'd recently had
a spate of incorrect labelling on several wartime commercial gramophone records
and when Joan announced, 'Irene sends her love to Corporal Jones somewhere
in Egypt and wants "Just to be Near You"...' I put the record on.

After a moment Joan declared, 'I'm sure that's not the tune. Fade it
out ... Fade it out!'

With that, Joan moved the heavy log book to one side, inadvertently placing
the edge of it down on the microphone key, and in the silence that followed
the end of my 'fade', Miss Griffiths was then clearly heard to cry, 'No! I'm
a bloody fool. Put it on again, dear. Quickly! Put it on again!'

Back came the long introduction to the melody and then the vocalist began
the refrain, 'Just to be Near You...'

The General Overseas postbag some two or three weeks later was bulging with
congratulatory letters from the various Services all saying roughly the same
thing; how splendid and heart-warming it was to be that near to a charming
BBC announcer.

Hobby My own BBC Programme Engineer boss
was the most understanding of men - shortish, not so much hair on top, very
expressive and truth-searching eyes behind those glasses and often given to
producing a crisp white handkerchief, which he would drape between chin and
shoulder before taking his violin out of the case and bowing away with great
flourishes.

'Vivaldi?' I once ventured to enquire.

'My arse,' replied E. St. Clair-Hobbins pausing precisely on the beat. 'Hobby'
was a born manager of men - and women too - of a whole host of junior and
senior programme engineers. He knew precisely what each of us was up to at
most times of the night and day; that which we jolly well should have done,
that which we ruddy well should not have done.

Trevor Hill, Michael Loftus, Peter Francis, Alan Gowdey (who was to become
Canon A. Gowdey), Ken Hicks and one or two others came into the latter category.
Well, you had to break the monotony of those long wartime nightshifts at 200
Oxford Street. If you were scheduled to work in the studios rather than in
Continuity there would often be two or three hours to kill between looking
after those who came in to broadcast for the BBC.

Whilst the Germans were using magnetic tape for recording purposes in wartime,
the British were still mainly recording on disc with a coated acetate surface
cut by a stylus, or occasionally on what looked like a large spool of fuse-wire,
or best of all on film.The Marconi-Stille There was another system.

Part of the job was to go into a special technical area and load up an awesome-looking
machine known as a Marconi-Stille. This H.G. Wellsian device recorded and
played back an enormous spool of steel tape far slimmer in width than
today's audio cassettes. Once loaded and started up, the tape, being made
of very thin steel, acted as a conductor of electricity. When in motion the
tape triggered off a mercury-discharge relay. You could see it dipping into
a container of mercury and emitting brilliant blue flashes of light as it
controlled the speeds of the right and left-hand spool motors. We seemed to
use this wondrous machine for transmitting such things as the News in Marathi
- an Indian dialect broadcast by the Eastern Service of the BBC.

I had a little spot of bother with that machine. I had loaded up the large
spool, not realising that since recording the News in Marathi no one in the
recording section had wound the steel tape back to the beginning. So, in all
innocence, I threaded up the machine and as the red light came on, so I started
the News transmission.

Mind you, I thought it sounded a little odd because each bulletin in that
language always began and ended with a sort of sung prayer. It went: 'Muzhab
nahin sikhata apa mein bair rakhna', or put quite literally another way,
'Religion not teaches between in animosity to keep'. You may of course already
have worked that out for yourself. Frankly I was more familiar with the BBC's
variation of the same theme: 'Nation Shall Speak Peace Unto Nation'.

If like me, however, you are not entirely familiar with the Indian language
and a Marathi prayer, then you are also unlikely to realise if you are playing
a tape backwards!

When I had programmes on steel tape to put out during the long night- shifts,
I'd turn off the lights above the large machine. Transmitting in the darkness
was just as exciting as that film scene in which Frankenstein's monster has
20,000 volts of flashing blue light belted through the iron bolt embedded
in his neck. Even better, if that steel tape broke you couldn't glue it, you
had to weld it! There was a welding device on each machine, besides a pair
of goggles. I became an expert tape-welder - just as broadcaster Teresa MacGonnagle,
who was then a girl in the Control Room, became the expert with a soldering
iron on really intricate technical wiring jobs. The chaps managed to grin
and bear it since, occasionally, Teresa brought in her iron or toaster for
them to repair. My welding handiwork was displayed over the Christmas of 1943
when both Red and Green Network Continuity suites were decked out with yards
and yards of steel 'paper chains'.

The Home Guard and the General Hobby sent
me on an Engineering course. Upon my return, now a Technical Assistant, Class
2, I was promoted from playing records and doing effects to sitting at the
Studio Control Panel.

There were also duties with the BBC's HQ Home Guard unit, which began with
a parade. For some strange reason we lined up in alphabetical order: Hill,
Hobbins, and House, medium, short and very tall. It was good to stand shoulder
to shoulder with Hobby. I used to glance in his direction and think how reassuring
it would be if he came into the Services with me when it was my time to go;
he was a really reliable man who had proved himself a splendid CO to his civilian
staff in the Programme Engineering Department.

Most of those Talk studios at 200 Oxford Street were small affairs; a studio
and a Control Cubicle, each about ten feet square. It was to be a Home Guard
evening for me the day the General arrived to broadcast, supported by half-a-dozen
military men and all with red shoulder tabs. Private Hill took a firm stand.

'I'm sorry, gentlemen. Three or four can stay here in the cubicle but you
must leave room for the producer. The rest of you must wait outside.'

The General asked me my name.

'Quite wight, Pwivate Hill, Quite wight!' declared Montgomery.Radio Newsreel It was Peter Pooley, as
Overseas News Talks Editor, who thought up the idea of a newsreel for radio,
an idea that was to prove an outstanding development in broadcast journalism.
By the time I came to join the ranks of Radio Newsreel, it was an established
success. The twice-nightly editions were relayed by an enormous number of
American stations for the Reel had become one of the major sources
of war news for the American continent.

To package these North American editions, in view of their undoubted prestige,
we were soon to 'head' the programme's signature tune, Imperial Echoes,
with another André Kostelanetz recording, this time, the fanfare opening to
Melodies from Victor Herbert: 'Tara-La, tara-la, lar-a-laar! ' Then
came the Canadian voice of announcer Byng Whitaker.

'Whilst Britain awaits another dawn, we bring you news from the Battle Fronts
of the World in Radio Newsreel!'

Then followed Imperial Echoes. That entire opening was copied onto
a BBC Watts acetate disc, one of our own recordings, together with Byng's
transatlantic voice.

One memorable night, on went the Red transmission light. Recorded Programme
assistant Charles Farmer put on the recorded opening sequence. Lovely fanfare:

'Whilst Britain awaits - kerwark-awaits-kerwark-awaits-kerwark . . .'

What a moment to have a repeating groove. I quickly fade out the offending
disc and give Mr Whitaker a Green light - his cue to do the 'menu' for Newsreel
tonight.

'In this edition, our gallant Russian Allies ...'

Slowly the quiver in his voice breaks into a chuckle and then into the sort
of uncontrollable laughter only contained within a large man. We are taken
off the air by the Control Room.

'Yes, yes,' I say over the telephone. 'He is quite recovered now! Give
us back our transmission!'

Even without that incident, Radio Newsreel was an exciting programme
on which to work, hearing stories coming in from such War reporters as A.R.
(Phil) Phillips, who was with a BBC Mobile Recording Unit even before the
collapse of France, also Richard Dimbleby, Chester Wilmot, Frank Gillard,
reporters who were right there in the field of battle. Sometimes there was
a despatch from American correspondent, George Hicks, who was on the Allied
convoys at sea.

The BBC's War Report Unit came with another well-known voice in Broadcasting,
that of Howard Marshall whom I've already mentioned.

Those North American editions of Radio Newsreel on Red network, which
we broadcast at 2345-2400 hours GMT and then from 0300-0315 hours, seemed
to highlight the talents of reporters, writers, editors and producers. How
poor, it seemed to me, was to be the later coverage of the Falklands Campaign
by comparison.

Whilst adrenaline was generated in all of us by the North American editions,
it was nice to be able to relax more in the preparation of Radio Newsreel
for the Pacific Service edition, which was broadcast from 0700 to 0725 GMT.
Then there was time for pre-broadcast talking. Newsreel producer George Innes,
who began his BBC career as a boy messenger, would discuss with Ian Messiter
the series he wanted to do once this lot was over. Something about popular
ballads mixed with Minstrel songs. It was George's dream, which was to become
a very successful Television reality with The Black and White Minstrel
Show.

And Ian, one of the Recorded Programme assistants? He was always doing conjuring
tricks or something exciting to amuse the younger members of staff.

'I'll stand behind you and together we take d-e-e-p breaths. On the count
of ten, hold it!'

You did and passed clean out for a magic moment.

***

The nearest most of us on the Reel were to come to the physical look,
and indeed the actual whiff of war was on September 27th 1944, the day Canadian
reporter Stanley Maxted reached Nijmegen and, with the last of the few, got
finally out of that hell that was Arnhem. He came straight as he was, in a
strained and stained state, to 200 Oxford Street and broadcast 'live' well
almost live after all he had endured.

'They came out because they had nothing left to fight with except their bare
hands, maybe,' he said.

D-Day Only a few months earlier, I'd been
on duty at 200 Oxford Street as Programme Engineering shift-leader when Tom
Chalmers' presentation assistant, Sybil Hall, phoned the Programme Engineering
office. She told me to get the News studio ready for an important transmission.
On the way, I waited at the Recorded Programmes library for an army dispatch
rider to arrive from Bushey Heath, which I knew to be the headquarters of
the Supreme Allied Commander. I switched everything on, then set up the disc
recording marked AFRS (Armed Forces Radio Service) on one of the turntables.
I knew what had occurred as I heard the first few seconds.

I was joined by Tom Chalmers. After a very long wait, because of weather conditions,
a somewhat nervous-looking John Snagge arrived with two other BBC senior staff
in tow. We settled John in the News studio. Then came the go-ahead.

'This is London! London calling in the Home, Overseas and European Services
of the BBC!'

I already knew what was coming next from hearing the start of that recording.

'People of Western Europe! A landing was made this morning on the coast of
France!'

On that morning of June 6th, 1944, General Dwight Eisenhower told us that
this was 'D' Day. There had obviously been a time for propaganda but now it
was time for absolute truth. The BBC gave the clearest of instructions to
all editors, writers and production staff, even down to my own level of responsibility,
on how War Report material should be treated once the Invasion began. If a
reporter used a phrase like 'fighting today', it was essential to state when
the despatch was recorded and where, for instance in Normandy, off
direct transmission from that area, or an actual recording made on location
with the background of an actual battle. It seemed to me a far cry from Marching
On.

And it was. The first of our correspondents to speak from the soil of France,
on June 8th, was Guy Byam. He was something of a hero to us for he'd already
survived the torpedoing of the Jarvis Bay and later, in the course
of the Allied Invasion, he was to swim the River Rhine. The third time, Guy
wasn't to be so lucky. He was reported missing in the 'Rose of York', a flying
fortress, which took part in a raid over Berlin less than a year later.

Byam's Invasion despatch was followed the same day by Chester Wilmot; 'We
came by Glider.' Then it was the turn of Richard Dimbleby doing a recorded
commentary from an aircraft over the coast of France.

On June 17th we broadcast Michael Standing's eyewitness account of the visit
of His Majesty the King to Normandy. Yes, it certainly was an exciting
time to be working on Radio Newsreel. There were of course lighter
moments before and after 'D' Day. From time to time those of us in Programme
Engineering were down at the Stage Door Canteen, broadcasting such celebrities
as Fred Astaire, Jack Buchanan, Dinah Shore, Noel Coward, and Beatrice Lillie.

The very day after 'D' Day, and with that veteran of the best of broadcasting
Cecil Madden as our producer-in-charge, the BBC launched the Allied Expeditionary
Forces programme. It ran from June 7th 1944 until over a year later, with
not only the BBC's resources but also those of NBC and CBS in America and
those of the Canadian Broadcasting Company. Gerry Wilmott was already with
us at 200 Oxford Street producing programmes for Canadian listeners to the
General Overseas Service. From a small studio in nearby Ramilies Place, I'd
often balance a sextet accompanying the lyrical voice of Corporal Edmund Hockridge
who, in post-war London, was to star in The Pyjama Game. Once the AEF
programme was launched, we had things on a really large musical scale with
three bands based in and around the London area. The American musicians were
directed by Captain Glenn Miller, the Canadians by Robert Farnon of the same
military rank, and for the British band, Sergeant George Melachrino.

Cecil Madden's brief was not only to give the Allied Expeditionary Force entertainment
and all-important News, but also to link them with their homelands. Working
on those Forces programmes proved helpful to me and to Gerry Wilmott, for
we were to meet up and to work together again with another Broadcasting Service
for the troops, this time on German soil once the war was over.

But let's go back to that disc recording of General Dwight Eisenhower, which
dramatically announced the long-awaited invasion of Europe. Funny, but in
all the excitement of 'D' Day the AFRS recording was left sitting in the record
rack above the turntables in the News studio. I discovered it myself a full
day later, having returned there after the early morning launch of the AEF
service from studios in Portland Place. In my usual efficient and hygienic
manner, I decided to tidy up that studio.

It was long after the war ended that someone in the BBC did a bit of careful
checking up. Who had been on duty that sixth day of June 1944 when one of
the most historic moments in Broadcasting had happened? Now Hobby had a delightful
secretary during those war years, Veronica Manoukian, who managed to keep
most of us cheerful as she dished out extra shift duties from Management.
Veronica went on to the BBC's Transcription Service after the war had ended
to do great work in that department. No, Veronica would never have split on
me - although had she made the discovery she would have said to herself,
'H'm, that heel, Hill!'

By one way or another I got the message. Would Hill kindly return the Eisenhower
'D' Day recording to the BBC's Recorded Archives section? First, I took a
copy!